The study was quiet and dark. It was lit only by the fire burning low in the grate, casting shadows that danced across the rows of leather-bound books. She leaned against the door, breathing hard, her hands pressed flat against the timber.
What was wrong with her?
She’d made the right choice. Dominic had Lady Catherine now. She was a beautiful, young, and appropriate woman who would give him heirs and grace his arm at balls without ever embarrassing him in front of the ton.
But his hand on her waist had been so steady. His body had been pressed against hers, and he'd said her name like a prayer and a curse. He still wanted her — she'd felt it in the heat of his gaze — and God help her, she still wanted him.
She crossed to the window and stared out at the dark gardens. Her reflection appeared ghostly in the glass. The maze was visible in the moonlight, its green walls edged in silver and its secrets hidden in deep shadow. That was where he’d touched her. Where he’d made her come apart and told her she was his. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass and closed her eyes.
Back in the ballroom, Dominic watched her disappear down the corridor with something twisting painfully in his chest. He should let her go. He should stay away and maintain the careful distance he’d been building for five days. But he couldn’t.
He was already moving toward the hallway when he heard the voices. They were sharp and malicious, carrying from behind a cluster of potted palms. Mrs. Pemberton was there with two other ladies, their heads bent together and their fans fluttering.
“Did you see them dancing?” Mrs. Pemberton’s voice dripped with venom. “Quite the display. I am surprised they didn’t simply couple right there on the floor.”
“Shameless.” A second woman chimed in, her chin lifting as she fussed with the strand of pearls at her throat. A tight,pinched quality entered the conversation. “A baker at a ball. Who does she think she is?”
“A scheming widow.” Mrs. Pemberton laughed, the sound like breaking glass, and she tapped her chin with her fan. “First she traps Dr. Hartley with her sad story, and now she is after the viscount. Though heaven knows what she thinks she can offer a man of his standing.”
“She is too old for Lord Westmore.” The third woman sniffed, her nose wrinkling with distaste as she looked toward the refreshments. “And those children of hers. No one even knows who the father was.”
“Probably some traveling merchant.” Mrs. Pemberton tittered behind her fan, her shoulders shaking with mirth. “Or worse. A groom, perhaps. A footman.”
Dominic’s blood turned to ice. He stepped around the palms and into their view, his hands clasped behind his back and his expression carved from stone. All three women froze. Their fans stopped mid-flutter and their faces drained of all colour.
“Ladies.” He didn’t raise his volume, yet the single word seemed to suck the warmth from the hallway. He tilted his head with a predatory slowness, pinning them under a stare that held all the warmth of a winter grave. “Forgive me—I could not help but overhear.”
Mrs. Pemberton’s smile faltered, her hand flying to her chest like to shield her heart. “Lord Westmore, we were simply...”
“You were insulting a guest in my home.” He took a single step forward. The three women moved as one, retreating until the wall stopped them, their eyes rounding with a sudden, sharp fear. “A woman worth more than the three of you combined.”
“I didn’t mean...” Mrs. Pemberton’s fan rattled against her stays, her words stumbling over one another.
“Mrs. Ashford built a business from nothing.” He severed her protest mid-sentence, the words landing with the sharp,clean edge of a blade. He stood his ground, a towering shadow that seemed to shrink the space around them. “She raised two children alone, without help or support. She works harder in a single day than any of you work in an entire year. And she does it with more grace and dignity than I have ever seen in a London ballroom.”
The three women stood silent and frozen, their mouths hanging open.
“If I hear her name in your mouths again.” He stepped closer still. “If I hear so much as a whisper about her, or her children, or her reputation, you will find yourselves unwelcome in every home in this county. Every ball. Every dinner party. Do I make myself clear?”
They nodded, mute with terror.
“Then enjoy the rest of the evening.” He turned on his heel and walked away. He didn’t care who had heard or what they thought.
He didn’t see Daphne standing behind a nearby pillar. Her dark eyes were wide and her face was slack with shock. But Daphne saw him. She heard every word. And for the first time, she didn't know what to think about Lord Westmore.
Dominic found the study door and stood before it. His hand rested on the handle, and his heart pounded against his ribs, but he should stay away. He was trying to be steady and reliable, not reckless. He opened the door anyway.
She was standing at the window with her back to him, silhouetted by the moonlight. The green silk of her gown hugged her curves. Her hair was coming loose from its pins, and dark tendrils curled against the pale skin of her neck.
“Please, go away.” She didn’t turn. Her shoulders stayed rigid, her attention fixed on the window as if he weren’t standing there at all.
“No.” Dominic stepped inside and shut the door behind him. The key turned in the lock, the final click sharp in the quiet room.
“Dominic.” Her fingers curled into fists at her sides as she started to turn.
“Don’t.” He crossed the room. He did not look away from her. “Don’t tell me to go. Don’t tell me to be sensible. I have been sensible for five days.” He let out a rough breath. “It is killing me.”
She turned to face him. The firelight caught the anger in her face. “Then go back to your Lady Catherine.” Her chin lifted in challenge. “You looked perfectly content with her.”
